The house was strange, even for a summer house,
cold somehow, the wraparound screened porch
almost cut off by the trees, though the trees, off
and on, would come alive with bluebirds, birds
so tame, they would follow on the mountain path
down to the small home lake, chur-wi, tru-ly,
chur-wi, tru-ly, over and over, in bird-English.
Had I ever seen a bluebird so bright a blue?—
a blue easily confused with happiness. I didn’t
even know a bluebird was a thrush. I knew
and loved you, that was enough. These blues,
as you called them, were yours: They seemed
to fly in and out of your hands. The lake was one
of those mirrorlike lakes. And the house was yours.
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